Hear Me

I wish I was old, I wish I was young

I wish I was older.

Or younger.

Either one would be wonderful,

Just not what I am right now.

I hate the environment I live in.

I wish to be an adult where this pettiness will cease.

Everyone talks.

Always.

Mouths never stay shut.

Exaggerations are made,

Lies are told,

Feelings are hurt.

Or

If you are like me.

You feel embarrassment.

Stupidity.

Pain.

Sorrow.

I wish I could throw these all away.

Shed my burdens.

I hate school.

I do not hate learning as most do.

I yearn for it.

I crave it.

The social hierarchy is what I hate.

We are like the people of court.

The girls in the short skirts and low-cut tops are like the Ladies of the court, frolicking about with shallowness and alluring clothing.

The boys are like various men of the court with duties.

Always doing the work the ladies were forbidden to do but secretly were as shallow and vain as the ladies themselves.

Then there was the royal line.

The ones that all peasants our courts-people knelt to but secretly cursed in the shadows.

They are loved but hated.

 Hated because of envious women who wished to be waited on by men hand and foot.

Men who wished to eat all the wanted and bed as many women as they please.

They bow before the royalty but secretly look down upon the ruler, wishing to cast them from their throne.

We are the same, unconsciously appointing rulers within our social system.

 The only difference is that we chose our rulers.

We do not mean to,

But we gradually do.

We watch as the fair featured, well paid, and shallow rise to the top,

Taking hold of the power.

But we are the ones who raise them to their throne.

We are the ones who give them our undivided attention.

Talk about them within or circles.

Make rumors or brag of connections.

We give them their power.

Without us they would be as ordinary and the rest.

Without us they would be normal.

We secretly look down upon these people that we have anointed rulers all by ourselves.

Does this not prove the stupidity of the young?

Surely it must.

The only thing that brings that idiocy to new levels is their lack of feeling.

For it is not others outside our walls that cause us the pain we suffer.

That I, myself, have felt first-hand.

We talk.

We spread untruth.

We fabricate stories.

Feelings are disregarded.

Your emotions matter to no one but yourself.

For that is how we are.

We are young,

And we think the world revolves around us.

That there is a constant trail of paparazzi behind us.

But there is not.

There is only pain, vanity, happiness, and memories that will be remembered forever.

I wish we were not like this.

I do not like the way I feel.

But no one else cares about that.

They only care that it will sound interesting transferring from mouth to ear.

My pain is real to me,

But not to others.

To others it is but a tale they heard of,

Filing it away in their mind as realistic fiction,

Not real feelings that a thought should be given about.

Please stop talking.

Just stop.

I can no longer handle this.

Treat me like a person.

I beg of you.

I wish I was old.

And I wish I was young.